


Flowers and Showers (or, in this case, a Bath)

by embalmer56, sadistically_sweet



Series: The 'Co-' Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Ageplay, Babysitting, Diapers, Dummies, Fluff without Plot, Little Sherlock, Little Sherlock gets to do a science!, M/M, Non-Sexual Age Play, Pacifiers, nappies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-01 01:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8601283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embalmer56/pseuds/embalmer56, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: Just a lazy afternoon at the elder Holmes brothers' house.





	1. Chapter One

**Squeakpigsrevenge** _(speaking about a picture)_ **:**

That's not the first time they've been caught out with ice lollies.

 **Sadieandmo** :

Nope. And Mummy's not the only one to catch them.

 **Squeakpigsrevenge** :

Of course not. Greg finds them in the garden nearly daily during the summer.

 **Sadieandmo** :

Sherlock in nothing but a nappy and a syrup-covered smile while he plays at Mycroft's feet.

*******

 

 

"Did you finish that entire box of lollies?"

"Perhaps." Mycroft licked his lips.

"He's an absolute mess, Mycroft."

"I'm aware; that's why we're outside."

"You're gunna hose him down?"

"No. We'll just rush up to the bath. Later."

"How much later?"

"Later enough that he's run all the sugar out of himself."

"Myc! He's got half the yard stuck to'im already!"

"He was rolling across the lawn. Why didn't you sweep up the trimmings when you mowed, Gregory?"

"Because I didn't anticipate a sticky, half-naked baby rolling all over?"

Mycroft shrugged, and Greg had to admit, this was the most relaxed he'd ever seen the man. "He's full, and he's happy."

As if he knew he was being discussed, Sherlock crawled right over to Greg and tugged on the leg of his trousers with a grungy fist, then held up a handful of cut grass in his other, a lone clover blossom sticking out between two fingers. "Here, G'eg!"

"For me? Why thank you!" Greg opened his hand and accepted the treasures.

"Is there a way to order in more ice lollies?" Mycroft asked. 

Greg made a huge show of sniffing the clover flower before putting it behind Sherlock's ear. "I'm sure there is? But I can go get if you want more."

"F'yower!!!"

"Yes, love, that's a pretty flower."

"Get the ones with real fruit. And the sour ones."

"You're both going to be up all night bellyachin'."

Mycroft cracked an eye open at him. "Worth it."

"What flavor do you want?" Greg poked Sherlock's dirty nose. 

"B'ue! An' cho'cate. P'ease!"

"The blue ones are the sour ones, yea?"

"B'ue," Sherlock nodded.

"They're called 'Warheads', I believe," Mycroft said, closing his eyes again and tipping the brim of his straw hat back down.

 Greg cocked his eyebrow. "How appropo."

"C'n I go wi'f you??? G'eg? I go too, G'eg? I go wi'f? P'ease?? G'eg?? P'ease, G'eg??"

"I need Sherlock to stay here and find me some more clovers."

"F'yowers?"

"Yes, please."

"Fin' fa', G'eg." Sherlock crawled away like a shot.

 "Clever." Mycroft grinned from beneath his hat.

"There's no way I'm takin' a sticky-fingered, sugar-loaded toddler to the shop."

"Good call, darling. Now clear out before he comes back and realizes he's been had."

Greg turned to quietly scurry off, when Mycroft called after him. "And more sunscreen? I used the last of it on him."

Sherlock hustled back to the bench a few minutes later, five clovers held as delicately as he could. "G'eg! F'yowers!!!"

"Gregory will be back shortly. He went to get us more lollies."

 Sherlock wilted a bit, just like the tiny flowers he held. "I wan'ned go, too."

"Next time. Did you know Gregory also loves Daisies? We can make them different colors with food coloring." 

"Pain' a roses red?" 

"Not exactly. Go get some and I will show you."

"I c'n picks them?" Sherlock asked, clearly skeptical. He'd been in trouble for picking the flowers in the garden before. 

"Yes, I'm giving you permission. You can pick four of them."

"Four?"

"Four. Show me four fingers." 

Sherlock held up four perfectly filthy fingers. 

"That's how many you can pick. Find some lovely, big ones."

"Big'uns," Sherlock scurried away, having left his clovers on the bench next to Mycroft. "On'y four?" he hollered once he reached the flower beds.

"Yes, only four."

"I y'ub 'em all."

Mycroft peeked from beneath his hat to see Sherlock stick a dirty finger into his mouth and visibly recoil, then stare daggers at his hand as if it had a mind of it's own.

Mycroft smirked to himself...he'd been waiting for that. Maybe it would break Sherlock of the habit of sucking on his fingers instead of a dummy. "Yes, they're all very pretty, but only pick four," he called out.

Sherlock stayed on his hands and knees, looking over all the pretty white blooms in front of him. Mycroft said to pick the prettiest ones...but how could he do that, when they were  _all_  so pretty and sweet-smelling?

He sat back on his heels. "My'coff help?" 

"Sherlock is a very smart boy. He is very capable of picking four lovely flowers." Mycroft knew without looking that the praise caused Sherlock to blush and dip his head. 

"They all boo'tiful. I cannah pick the bes' ones."

"Then select four that are not the best ones, and we can make them just as lovely as the rest of their friends."

"Bu'  _all_  are p'etty, My'coff!" Sherlock could not seem to stress this enough, and yet his My'coff still didn't seem to get it!

The elder Holmes sighed, then uncrossed his legs and stood up to go tend to his little brother.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock beamed as Mycroft knelt down next to him to help him pick. "Look, this one has shorter petals on one side..." he said, pointing one of the little white flowers out. "I think making it yellow would take the attention away from that."

Sherlock nodded. "Y'ah, l'ellow's p'etty."

"And this one is missing a few petals, but making it blue will fix that."

"B'ue! I y'ub it!"

Mycroft placed their posies in Sherlock's lap one by one, and the baby patted them reverently.  
  
"Hmm, this one is a little bigger than all the others. What color do you think it would like to be?"

"Ummm...g'een? Hu'k f'yower?"

"A Hulk flower."

"Ya'h! Jawn y'ub it!"

"You can take that one home for John, then."

"One mo'."  
  
"You pick the last one."

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip and looked the rest of the flowers over...Mycroft had made good choices, but what if he didn't? What if he picked a flower that didn't want to be another color? Or skipped one that did?

"...They'll all be happy no matter which you pick, Sherlock," Mycroft said, seeing the worried lines on his little brothers' face.

"They will?"

"They will. No one's going to be disappointed."

Sherlock nodded...if Myc'off said it, it must be true. He finally reached down and carefully plucked a Daisy that had several extra petals growing from the center of it by the bottom of the stem, the way he'd seen his brother do it, and placed it with the others.  
  
"Wonderful choice. What color should that one be?"

Sherlock gently touched the flowers' extra petals; "I f'ink it can be la'bender."

"Purple-"

"La'bender."

"Lavender is an excellent color for this flower." Mycroft got to his feet and pulled Sherlock with him. "Can you sit on the bench and hold our flowers while I get the supplies to change their colors?"

Sherlock nodded, plopping his bum on the bench. "F'yowers."

"We're going to make Gregory change your grass filled nappy when he gets back from the shop."

"I y'ike g'ass."

"I do, too...I just don't wear it. I'll be right back," Mycroft said as he patted Sherlock on top of his sun-warmed hair, then turned to walk across the yard and enter the kitchen through the side door.  
  
He gathered four plastic cups and ran a little water into each one, then searched out and found the box of food colouring from the high shelf in the pantry.

As he headed back outside, he wondered just how he was going to create 'lavender'; purple he could do, but lavender?

Perhaps he could make Sherlock believe it was the flower's choice as to what shade they became.

Much to Mycroft's surprise, Sherlock was still on the bench where he'd been left, talking softly to the flowers; "... an' Hu'k F'yower gunna y'ive at my house. So Jawn can ha'b g'een f'yower. And a res' can y'ive wif' G'eg and My'coff."

Mycroft set the cups on the bench next to Sherlock. "Would you like to do the food coloring?"

"Yesssss, p'ease yes! I ca' do it."

"Alright. But very carefully-"

"B'ery carefu'," Sherlock nodded.

"This will stain whatever it touches."

"Stain," Sherlock repeated, clapping his hands excitedly as Mycroft pulled each of the little bottles out of the box and sat them in front of their respective cups, saying each color out loud. "Yellow."

"L'ello."

"Green."

"G'een."

"Blue."

"B'ue."

"And red. This is the one we're going to mix with blue to get a lavender flower."

"La'bender."

"Very good. Which one do you want to do first?"

"Jawn f'yower. G'een!" Sherlock snatched up the little bottle of color and struggled to get the cap off.

"Gently." Mycroft intercepted and took it from him before Sherlock could get it into his mouth to chew off the cap.

"Gen'le," Sherlock agreed, watching Mycroft with rapt attention.

"I think 4 drops will be enough," he said, putting it back into waiting hands.  
  
"Four. Gen'le four." Sherlock accepted the bottle and upended it, squeezing hard.  
  
A huge stream of color flooded the cup; "...One."

" _Sherlooock_ , no-no," Mycroft scolded, and took the bottle from him again. "What did I say?"

Sherlock dipped his head, looking appropriately reprimanded. "My'coff say g'enle," he said quietly, putting a green-speckled finger to his lips.  
  
"And that wasn't gentle, was it? No, that was what we call 'a big waste'."

Sherlock pouted and looked down into the cup, where the water looked more black than green. "Waste?"

"Yes, waste; that was far too much color...I hope it doesn't hurt the flower."

Sherlock's head snapped up, looking stricken. "I hurt'ed f'ower?!!"

"The flower needs water to drink. At this point there is only food coloring in the cup." To stem the sniffles that were already on their way, Mycroft turned and dumped half the cup into the bushes behind them, then added a bit of water from the nearby hose.

"How many drops are we going to put in the next cup?"

"Four gen'le ones," Sherlock scrubbed his fist across his face, leaving streaks of green. Oops.

"Put the Hulk flower into the cup."

Sherlock kissed the flower and dropped it into the cup; "Fa' Jawn."

"Exactly. Let's make the yellow one next." Mycroft opened the bottle of yellow and handed it to Sherlock.

"Four, four gen'le ones," Sherlock said to himself as he held the yellow bottle above the water. He gave it a gentle squeeze...barely enough for a drop to well up in the little nozzle, let alone fall into the water.  
  
"There you go, a little more."

"Y'ittle more," Sherlock repeated, concentrating on the little project in front of him as if it were just as important as one of his bigger experiments. He squeezed it again, causing two bright yellow drops to plop down into the water and swirl around.

"Look, Sherlock..." Mycroft said, holding the cup up for him to see. "Watch it mix."

"P'etty. I y'ike l'ellow. One mo' is four." Sherlock held up the bottle of yellow dye.

"I think three yellow drops is okay. It will be pastel yellow." Mycroft put the cup down and took the bottle from Sherlock, then recapped it.

"I y'ike it," Sherlock nodded. "B'ue nex'!"

Mycroft handed him the blue bottle, astounded that they'd gotten through that one without adding yellow speckles to Sherlock's green streaks.

Two down, two to go.

"One," Sherlock counted, his tongue poking between his teeth as he painstakingly dribbled four drops of blue dye into the third cup. "I di' y'it!" he shouted, throwing up his hands and raining blue droplets everywhere.

Mycroft sighed to himself...well, he had been the one who'd suggested food coloring...he should have anticipated this, as well. "Yes, yes you did. Now, for the lavender--"

"Lab'bender," Sherlock nodded, poking at his blue dots and smearing them around his arm.  
  
Mycroft swatted a bare thigh with his fingertips. "Stop that. For the lavender one, we're going to try two red drops, then one blue one, and see what color that gives us. Can you do that?"

Sherlock nodded excitedly, giving little claps."Can, can do it! Red, My'coff, I nee' red!"

"Use the blue you have open first."

"B'ue drop," Sherlock put a blue drop in the cup and handed the smudged, dye-covered bottle back to Mycroft, who handled it gingerly. "Red and b'ue makes la'bender?"

"Red and blue makes purple. Hopefully only a few drops will make a light purple, or lavender."

"Science?"

"In a manner of speaking." Mycroft handed the little bottle of red drops to Sherlock. "Just two red drops, and we'll see what that gives us."

"Jus' two," Sherlock repeated, leaning down until he was almost nose-to nose with the cup, and squeezed. "One...two."

"Very good." Mycroft held the cup up and used the flower stem to stir it a little. "What do you think, is that lavender enough?"

"Y'ah, lab'bender."

"It looks mauve to me."

"Mau'b?" Sherlock examined the cup critically. "Mo' b'ue?"

Mycroft poured some of the liquid in the cup into the bushes again and added more water. "I think one more drop blue should do it."

"B'ue my fa'b'rite."

"I can see that."

Sherlock put one more drop of dye in the cup before plunking the flower in. "Lab'bender? Come on now," Sherlock coaxed, peering down into the cup.

"It'll be a while before they change colors. Perhaps by breakfast time tomorrow."

Sherlock leaned against the back of the bench and rested his cheek on his arm. "Tha's a y'ong time."

"Plenty of time for one last ice lolly, then a bath."

"I y'ike ba'ffs," Sherlock said, his eyelids drooping.

"Baths are lovely, especially after a long day of playing hard." Perfect. Someone was going to go down for bedtime without much of a fuss. Mycroft stood and picked up two of the cups; "Would you like to help me carry them inside and put them in the window?"

Sherlock nodded as he stood up.

"Be very careful, though...don't drop them."  
  
"N'ah drop f'owers," the baby repeated, and very gingerly picked up the last two.

Sherlock followed his brother into the kitchen and put his cups next to Mycroft's on the window sill.

"They's boot'iful!"

"Yes," Mycroft sighed, staring down at the trail of grass that started at the backdoor, and ended at Sherlocks' feet.

"G'eg b'inging ice y'oyee?"

"Greg will be back any minute with our ice lollies. Maybe we should try to hose you off."

"Ba'ff?"

"No, not yet...not before dinner. Just a quick rinse."

"I dun' wan'nid, no fank'oo."

"You don't want to go back in the garden and play in the water?"

"Is col'. Dun' y'ike i'd."

"You can't come any further into the house while you're covered in grass, Sherlock."

"I dun' wan'na hose, My'coff!"

"Baby powder works for sand." Greg said, coming in through the kitchen door with two laden shopping bags. "I bet it works on grass."

"G'eg! Y'oyee?!?! P'ease?!?"

"Then there will be white powder everywhere instead of grass."

Greg shrugged and held up two different boxes of ice lollies, then opened the box of tropical fruit flavored ones for Sherlock.

"He's right though, now the suns going down it's gunna cool off fast."

"F'ank oo'!" Sherlock babbled as Greg handed him a pineapple one.

"I didn't say 'leave him out overnight'; I said 'hose him off'. Five minutes, at the most."

"And you know how he gets when he's t-i-r-e-d," Greg said, looking down at the floor where Sherlock had decided to settle, and watched him take a big bite out of his popsicle. Greg cringed; "God, how does that not hurt your teeth?!"

"I y'ike it," Sherlock mumbled through a mouthful of frozen juice.  
  
"You're an odd little duck."

"He'd drink nothing but milk until he was ten. His teeth are made of iron."

"'M'ron man," Sherlock agreed.

"Maybe if we eat finger foods for dinner he can have a b-a-t-h right now?" Greg suggested.

"If we do that, he'll fall asleep right in his plate."

"You hose him down in the garden and he's not eating or sleeping at all tonight."

"What's the lesser of two evils?"

"Depends on who'd be staying up with him tonight."

"So--"

"It won't be me."

Mycroft sighed and looked down at his little brother, who was nearly done with his popsicle and covered in a new coat of 'sticky'. "He at least needs a change, and desperately. That thing's going to burst."

Greg looked down at Sherlock as well, and tipped his head to the side, thinking. "...Bring me a clean nappy. And a washcloth. We'll just wipe him down best we can right here."

"You'll bathe him."

"You're pushing your luck."

Mycroft sniffed, and went to dig up a washcloth and a nappy.

"How's the popsicle, little man?" Greg asked, grinning down at Sherlock.

"A'licious! Mo', p'ease?"

"How many have you had today?"

Sherlock chewed the stick of his ice lolly as he thought; "Fi'be. This one maked six," he said with a cheeky grin.

"I think six is plenty, don't you?"

"Ne'ber too many, can a'ways ha'b mo'."

Mycroft returned with an armload of wipes, a nappy, and a washcloth.

"Come to Greg," Greg said, taking them. "Let's clean up a bit so we can have dinner."

"Pos'icle for dinner?"

"No more popsicles tonight, sweetheart...let's save some for tomorrow."

" 'morrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow. Come to Greg."

Sherlock looked up at him as if he were weighing his options...then wrinkled his nose and shook his head up at his uncle while chewing on his popsicle stick and giggling.

"Oi," Greg said, with feigned indignation. Couldn't get truly mad a happy little face like that. "I said com'ere!"

Sherlock squealed and shook his head again.

"You little..." Greg muttered as he stooped to his knees and sat on the floor in front of Sherlock, then grabbed the baby's ankles and pulled him on over anyway.

Sherlock howled in delight; " 'gain, 'gain, 'gain!"

"Maybe later; this nappy is gunna split," Greg said as he tore the tapes open. "When was the last time Myc changed you?"

"Din'nah sh'ange."

"Blabber mouth," Mycroft scolded, pulling a bag of chicken fingers out of the freezer.

"...Did you shove _handfuls_ of grass down the front of your nappy?!?!" Greg sat back and stared. Every inch of damp skin was coated in grass clippings.

"I _did_ suggest that we use the hose," Mycroft said in that 'you-should-have-known' tone of voice that he favored so often, while setting the oven to preheat.

"Nooooooo!" Sherlock whinged and reached down with both hands to cover himself. "Don' wan'nid!"

"We're not going to use the hose," Greg sighed and batted Sherlock's hands out of the way while he figured out the best way to go about this. "You stay right here," he said, pointing a finger in Sherlock's face and using his 'Greg-is-serious' voice.  
  
Sherlock stuck one of his colorfully-speckled thumbs in his mouth and nodded as Greg got up with the washcloth and went over to the sink to run it under a warm tap.

"That's not going to work."

"Unless you're going to help, sha'ddup." Greg made a face at Mycroft.

"I y'ove g'ass."

"There are very few things I love enough to shove them down the front of my pants," Greg said, smirking to himself.

Mycroft gave him a not-so-gentle elbow in his side before he could scoot away and get back to the baby.

Greg knelt down and began to gently try and wipe the grass clippings off Sherlocks bits. It wasn't really working, unfortunately, but he was loathe to admit that Mycroft may have been right all along.

"He needs a bath," Greg said, tossing the rag aside as he finally gave up. He was likely to hurt the kid if he kept trying to scrub, and that was the very last thing he wanted.  
  
"Or the hose."

"We're NOT hosing him. We'll just bathe him. And if he falls asleep during dinner, then he falls asleep. He'll live." Greg stood up and held the extremely soggy nappy at arm's length, then dumped it in the bin and reached for Sherlocks' hands. "C'mon sweetheart, bath time."

 


	3. Chapter 3

"I y'ove ba'ffs!" Sherlock hopped up, and a scattering of grass fell from his bits and landed on the floor.

"Damn. It'll be like a treasure map to the tub," Mycroft sighed.

"You're the one who let him do it. I wasn't even home."

"I was sunbathing! He was supposed to be napping next to me."

Greg snorted; "A nap after polishing off a whole box of popsicles between the two'a you, right...and I'm the Queen."

"Not with that attitude."

"Shud'dup." Greg tried valiantly to brush more grass away from Sherlock's nethers, but it was simply a lost cause.

Sherlock frowned at him. "Tha' wasn' nice, G'eg."

"I'm just trying to brush you off a bit, sweetheart--"

"Don' tell My'coff 'shu'yup'."  
  
Greg looked a bit speechless, while Mycroft took it all in with smug, yet clearly touched, smirk.

"Gots'a say, 'sorry, My'coff.' "

Greg, looking suitably sheepish, muttered a quick ,"Sorry, Mycroft."

"Apology accepted, Gregory."

"Come on, let's get you into the bath before I get into more trouble."

Greg held out his hand and Sherlock gladly took it. "Da'yee sayed tha' manners is b'ery import'ed."

"Your daddy talks too much."

"Y'ah, he does," Sherlock said, making Greg chuckle. "Bu'd I y'ike it."

"Aw..." Greg ushered him up to the bathroom on the second floor, and began running the taps in the bathtub.

"Bubb'as, G'eg?"

"We can have a few, not lots."

"I y'ike bubb'as."

"You like lots of things," Greg said, testing the water.

"Y'ah," Sherlock plopped down on the floor and began to pick grass off his thighs.   
"Da'yee say he y'ikes y'istenin' to wha'd I y'ike."

"I like it too, and I know that your brother does as well."  
  
"G'eg y'ike y'ots of f'ings?"

Greg reached under the sink and pulled out the bubbles, emptying two cap fulls under the running tap. "I do like a lot of things, I've just never listed em out like you."

"Is nice a'member f'ings you y'ike."

"Sage advice. Come on and get in; supper will be ready soon."

"Ha'bin sh'icken p'ingers!!!"

"That's right," Greg said, holding Sherlocks' arm as he stepped in. "Maybe chips too, if Mycroft's feeling generous."

Sherlock sucked in a breath as he stepped into the water. "I y'ike ships," he said, staring down into the water and looking unsure on whether he wanted to sit down in it or not.

"I said 'chips', love," Greg chuckled, still holding his hand.

"Tha's wha'd I say'd, G'eg."

"Awww, I misheard, I'm sorry."

"Tha's okay." Sherlock shuffled his feet.

"Sherlock...you have to sit in the water for this bath thing to work."  
  
Sherlock frowned at him. "Water is col'. I dun y'ike col' waters."

Greg checked the temperature with his wrist and found it fine. That's when he noticed the pink-ish, sun-kissed look that started around Sherlocks' shoulders and trailed down towards the middle of his back. "How long were you outside before Mycroft remembered sunscreen?"

Sherlock shrugged. He and Mycroft had been outside for a long time.

"Hmmm." Greg frowned...if Sherlock wasn't complaining (yet), he wasn't going to point it out first. "We can't make it any warmer, sweetheart...that would burn your bum. We'll just make this a really fast one, okay?"

"I dun' y'ike it, G'eg."

' _Crap_.' "What about earlier, remember? It's nice to think about the things you _do_ like. C'mon, sit down and think about what else you like; what about...puppies? You like puppies lots, don't you?"

Sherlock pouted but lowered himself into the water, and his eyes widened; "My bum does fee'yl hot!"  
  
Greg nodded and pulled out a bar of soap...no scratchy loofah tonight. "Do you like warm bums?"

"On'yee if warm from'a ba'ff." Sherlock reached out with both arms and piled the bubbles into a mountain, then smashed it.

"And puppies?"

"I y'ooooove pu'bbies."

Greg worked quickly to clean him up, but he was going to leave the baby's hair for his Daddy. No way he was fighting that battle tonight."What about cartoons?"

"I y'ike alla cartoons! Pe'bba Pig is goo'. And Thomas Train!"

"Those are both fine cartoons," Greg said, scrubbing at Sherlock's hands...but scrub as he might, there were several spots that just weren't coming off in the bath. "What did you get into--?"

Sherlock fussed and pulled his hand away. "We maked co'dors," he said.

"Made colors?"

"Y'ah...made p'etty f'owers."

"Oh, that's nice....what colors did you make?" Greg asked, trying to keep the little one talking while he gently dabbed a washcloth around his sunburned shoulders.

"We maked b'ue! I y'ike b'ue, an' ye'yyow!" Sherlock squirmed, his voice taking on a bit of whinge; "An' g'een fa' Jawn. An' lab'bender!"

"Lavender? That's a complicated color."  
  
"My'coff put ex'ra co'ders in a bushes."

"We're going to have green bushes now? What! And here I thought they were already green."

"On'yee the y'eaves!" Sherlock leaned forward, away from Greg's touch. "Done, a'w done? Done, G'eg? P'ease?!"

Greg sighed...those spots were going to be smarting something terrible later. "Yeah, we're done...let's rinse the bubbles off and you can get out, okay?"

"Y'ah, ou'd...wan' ou'd."

"Then we're gonna get you in a nice, dry nappy."

"Nappy."

"Yeah, and then we're gonna put some nice, cold lotion on your shoulders."

"I dun' y'ike co'd."

"This'll feel good. Besides, you know popsicles are cold? And you like those, don'tcha?" Greg asked, unplugging the drain.

"I y'ooooove po'scicles, G'eg. We can have mo'?" Sherlock stood up and let Greg use the detachable shower head to rinse off the last of the bubbles and grass.

"We have to eat chicken fingers first."

"I y'ike 'em. An' ships."

"Pirate ships or potato ships?"

"Bo'ff!!!"

Greg helped Sherlock climb out of the tub and wrapped into a towel. "Nappy time," he said, and swatted a towel-clad bum that sent Sherlock scrambling out of the bathroom and down the hall to the nursery.


	4. Chapter 4

After rinsing the bottom of the tub free of leftover suds and grass blades, Greg followed Sherlock and found him already sitting on the changing table like a little monk, with his towel shrouded around him.  
  
"You know you're not supposed to climb up there by yourself," Greg scolded lightly as he walked over.

Sherlock's bottom lip stuck out in an adorable pout; "Saw'ree."

"We don't want you fallin' off it, love." Greg bent down and got the powder, a nappy, and the baby lotion. "That's an awful long way to the floor. Lie back."

"Y'ah. I dun y'ike faw'yin'." Sherlock settled back and automatically lifted his bum.

"N'ah. It's not a nice experience, is it."

"Dun y'ike it..." Sherlocks' face scrunched as if he might cry, so Greg quickly changed the subject. "What kind of sauce are you going to have on your chicken fingers?"

"Applesauce!"

Greg made a face as he powdered Sherlocks' grass-free bits, then pulled his nappy up and taped it into place. "You don't want a bit of hot sauce or honey mustard?"  
  
"No f'ank'oo. Applesauce is goo'."

"You're still an odd little duck," Greg said, and sat Sherlock up so he could kiss his cheek. "Just like your brother."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose and giggled; "C'ack, c'ack!"

"All you need now is some feathers." Greg squeezed some of the pinkish lotion out onto his fingers. "I'm gonna put some of this on your shoulders, baby boy...think you can sit still?"

Sherlock looked skeptical; "Is col'?"

Greg rubbed the dob of lotion between his hands, warming it up. "Not cold. But it might feel cooler than it is."

"S'range...I try." Sherlock said, putting on a brave face.

"Good man." Greg carefully smeared the lotion over Sherlock's reddened shoulders. The baby flinched at the first touch, but valiantly tried to hold still after that initial unpleasant shock.

And it worked...for a little while. But as gentle as Greg tried to be, Sherlock was soon bent double in an effort to get away from his touch. "N'moooore, G'eg! S'op, p'ease?!!"

"Okay, okay...we're done, all done." Greg wiped his fingers off on his trousers. Oh, Mycroft was going to get an ear-full later tonight.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and sat up. "Sh'icken p'ingers now?" he asked in a tiny voice.

"Poor love. Yeah, let's go get you dinner."

"Nek'kit?"

"You wanna stay in just your nappy?"

"Y'ah. P'ease." The little bugger looked worn out.

Greg shrugged; "It's fine with me...easier clean up later." Greg helped Sherlock off the changing table.

Sherlock toddled over to the cots and plucked his bunny up, then came back and took Gregss hand. "I y'ike sh'icken p'ingers."

"We may have to dig in the pantry for your applesauce. Can it be room temperature?"

"I y'ike col' sauce."

"Contradictory little bugger."

"Col' stuffs s'posed be col'."

"We'll see what we can do." Greg led him out of the nursery and back down the stairs. "Did you have fun with your brother today?"

"Y'ah," Sherlock replied, concentrating on taking each step one at a time. "P'yayed y'ots."

"I can tell. What else did you do, besides plant a garden in your nappy?"

"Pick'd f'owers, an', um, an'...y'ook for bugs!"

"You found bugs in our garden? I thought Mycroft would have had them outlawed." Greg helped Sherlock 'hop' off the last step, and they continued into the kitchen.

"I foun' f'ree y'adybugs, an' a f'ousan' ants, an' a bee!!!"

"You had a very busy day."

"My'coff help me hol' y'adybugs a y'ittle bit. One poop on him." Sherlock grinned like the cat who swallowed the canary as Mycroft made indignant noises at the stove.

"That was dirt, not feces."

"Was _poo_."

"I hope you washed your hands before handling our dinner, sweetheart," Greg quipped as he got Sherlock seated.

Mycroft gave him a 'look' over his shoulder, then turned back to the stove.

"Almost done over there?"

"Nearly. Ten more minutes."

"Perfect." Greg went over to the pantry and found the individual cups of applesauce, then took one and placed it in the freezer.

Mycroft gave him a questioning look.  
  
"He wants it cold."

Mycroft rolled his eyes; "Better to put the whole pack in there, then...that's how much he'll eat."

"I taked a ba'ff so I dun nee' wash han's."

"That's true. You are a very clean boy."

"Y'adybug din'nah poo on me, ei'ver...on'y My'coff."

Greg snorted as he shoved three more cups of applesauce into the freezer, and Mycroft gave him a look which only made him laugh out loud.

Mycroft was quick to change the subject. "Why is he only in a nappy?"  
  
"You didn't have anything but a nappy on him, too."

"Yes, but we were outside. We wear clothes in this kitchen."

"Well, he didn't want to wear anything because his shoulders ache."

Mycroft looked up. "His shoulders?..."

"Yeah, he got a bit of sun out there."

Mycroft whirled around, leaving the stove to go see what on earth Gregory was talking about.

"Careful...wouldn't want to burn dinner like you did the baby."

"Burn a baby?!?" Sherlock looked up from the placemat he'd been coloring on.  
  
"Never mind Gregory; he was dropped on his head as a child." Mycroft examined Sherlock's pink shoulders. "And several times as an adult, as well."

Greg stirred the macaroni and cheese; "You're a real charmer. Your face is a bit pink as well, by the way. Two whingey Holmes brothers...I should just go spend the night at Baker Street."

"Da'yee n'ah home."

"All the better; I'll finally get a good night's sleep that way."

"...G'eg y'eave?" Sherlock asked, and chewed on a finger while he looked up at Mycroft worriedly.  
  
Mycroft looked back at Greg; "See what you've done."

Greg sighed. "I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart. I was teasing." He cut the heat down under the pasta and opened the oven. "Dinner's ready."

"You get plates; I'll get his juice."

"Right-o."

While Mycroft went right on with making Sherlock's sippy-cup, Greg busied himself with plating food for the three of them. He was giving each one a good, heaping portion of mac-and-cheese, when he felt someone grab the bottom of his shirt and lay their head on his shoulder. "You're supposed to be at the table," he said, smiling.  
  
"G'eg rea'yee not y'eave?"

"I could never leave my Sherlock." Greg twisted around and kissed the top of Sherlocks' head. "Grab yourself a bib and go sit down, please."

"P'omise?"

"I promise."

Mycroft came up behind them and wrapped his arms around them both. "No one's going anywhere." He stepped back and patted Sherlocks' bum; "Now quit being soppy and do as you've been asked."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at his brother. "Am dry. You soppy," he said, then squealed and scurried back to the table when Mycroft pulled his arm back and made as if he were going to swat him again. "Brat."

Sherlock stopped at the drawer that held his and Jawn's bibs. "I y'am no'd!' he protested as he grabbed the first bib on top.

"I'll wait to hear a better argument than that," Mycroft muttered, carrying two plates to the table while Greg checked to see if Sherlock's applesauce was 'co'd' enough yet.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock plopped his bum in his seat and pulled his bib on over his head.  
  
"You only fuss when someone else does that?" Mycroft asked, popping a noodle into his mouth.  
  
"E'brybody else gets 'em stuck on my ears." Sherlock pulled one of the glass plates to himself; "Yum!"

"Ah-ah, that's not yours." Mycroft moved the glass plate away and set a plastic plate in front of Sherlock, the chicken already cut into bite sized pieces; "...this one is yours."

"I dun y'ike this one. I y'ike tha' one."

"It's the same food, just in easier pieces for little hands."

Sherlock held up his hands and looked from one to the other. "My han's aren't y'ittle," he said, showing his brother.

"But _you_ are, therefore your hands are little, too." Mycroft handed him a plastic fork while Greg set a cup of applesauce next to his plate.  
  
Which made Sherlock forget that he was supposed to be complaining about getting a baby fork. "Is c'od?" he asked, dropping the fork and reaching for his applesauce instead.

"As cold as it's going to get for now, sweetheart," Greg said as he sat down across from Mycroft.

Sherlock stuck the tip of one finger into the center of it. "Is c'od," he said, nodding satisfactorily.

"Good, now eat it...don't play with it."

"I y'am ead'ing," Sherlock said through a mouthful of pasta.

"Brilliant." Mycroft tucked into his chicken, cutting it into bite sizes and eating it with a fork.

"My'coff y'ittle han's too?"

Greg choked on a bite of Mac and Cheese, and had to get up to get himself a glass of water.

"No. It's the polite way to eat them."

Greg set a glass next to Mycroft's plate. "It's true. You and I are heathens for using our fingers," he told the little detective, who was three knuckles deep in applesauce, drowning a bite of chicken.

"Still think everyone should wear clothes in the kitchen?" Greg asked, amused.  
  
"Hush, you."

"Hea'ben," Sherlock agreed, shoving his chicken into his mouth and then sucking his fingertips clean.

"You too. You're both animals."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "C'ack!"

"What?!" Mycroft nearly choked on his food, and so did Greg...but for a completely different reason.

"He's quacking," he explained, belly-laughing at the affronted look on Mycroft's face. " 'Cause I called him an 'odd duck'."

"C'ack." Sherlock agreed, dipping a spoonful of Mac and Cheese into his applesauce.  
  
"Charming." Mycroft frowned as he watched Sherlock shove the whole mess into his mouth.  
  
"What kind of animal could I be?"

"G'eg is a kitty! Or a mouse! G'eg a mouse!!!!"

Greg wrinkled his nose and made mousy-cheeping noises.

"My'coff a goose!"

Mycroft did _not_ follow suite and make a honking noise.  
  
Greg leaned in close to Sherlock. "Mycroft's no fun, is he?" he stage-whispered, making Sherlock giggle.

Mycroft snorted. "We had plenty of fun this afternoon, didn't we?"  
  
"Y'ah! Pos'icles an' bugs an' f'owers an' co'dors!"

"See, I am fun."

"My'coff fun, e'ben if he n'ah a aminal y'ike us," Sherlock nodded to himself, picking up the mostly empty cup of applesauce and slurping the rest.

"I don't think it's physically possible for me to be an animal like you."

Greg chuckled deeply; "That's not entirely true."

"Gregory, _enough_."

"G'eg in trooouuubbbllle," Sherlock sang quietly, dragging a finger through the cheese sauce on his plate and licking it off.

"You be quiet,too. Are you done eating?"

"I c'n ha'b more? P'ease?"

"More of what?"

"Every'fing."

"Absolutely, small fry." Greg got up and refilled the baby's plate, taking the time to cut his chicken to pieces.

"More sauce too, G'eg? B'ery import'ed part! P'ease an; f'ank oo!" Sherlock crowed as Greg put his plate in front of him and went to the freezer. "Wha's smol fry?"

"A fry is what they sometimes call a baby fish," Mycroft said.

"Bay'bee p'ish?" Sherlock sucked in his cheeks and made fish faces at his brother.

"You are being far too disgustingly adorable tonight." Mycroft reached over and pinched Sherlock's cheek, making him squeal.  
  
Greg peeled the foil back off of another container of applesauce and placed it within Sherlock's reach. "I thought he'd be putting up a lot more f-u-s-s because of the s-u-n-b-u-r-n."

"Don't celebrate just yet," Mycroft said, dryly. "Wait until bedtime."


	6. Chapter 6

"No f'ank'oo. I don' nee' be'time," Sherlock smiled sweetly at Mycroft, popping a bite of applesauce-covered chicken into his mouth.

"I remember reading that nappy cream helps." Greg put his own plate into the sink and stood at the counter while eating pasta straight out of the pot.

"Nappy c'eam helps be'time?"

"It has anti-inflammatory properties, so that makes sense. Though, talk about mess..." Mycroft sat back with his glass in hand, thinking.

"We can clear most of the stuff out of the crib."

"Whatever _is_ there is going to stick and be very uncomfortable."Mycroft turned to look over his shoulder. "That's disgusting, Gregory," he said, and Greg rolled his eyes.

"I don' y'ike c'ib. I s'eep wi'f G'eg an' My'coff."  
  
Mycroft turned back to his little brother, who had just stuffed an impossibly big bite of macaroni and cheese into his mouth, making his cheeks bulge out. "You've liked sleeping in the crib before."

Sherlock shook his head as he chewed. "On'yee w'if Jawn," he mumbled through a mouthful of food.

"That can't be true...can it?" Greg stared at Mycroft as he licked his spoon and put it back in the macaroni.

"I don't remember the last time he spent the night here by himself."

"Y'ast time I s'eep wi'f G'eg an' My'coff. I don' y'ike s'eep by myself."

Greg shrugged; "Then the nappy cream is definitely out."

"Wouldn't be the worst mess that's ever happened in our bed."

Sherlock froze, mid-chew, and went an extra shade of pale....even his sunburn looked a little peaked. He leaned over his plate and let the rest of the half-chewed pasta fall from his mouth; " 'm not hun'ree anymore," he said, leaning back against his seat.

Mycroft curled his lip at the whole spectacle, and slowly pushed his plate away. "Neither am I, suddenly."

"You're both ridiculous," Greg huffed, digging in the cabinet for Tupperware since dinner was clearly over.

Mycroft gave the back of Gregs' head his most incendiary glare; " _He's_ ridiculous. _I_ was referring to the time Jawn threw up all over our duvet."

"Blech. That was pretty horrific."

"G'oooooossssssssss!!!!"

"Just because both of you have your minds constantly in the gutter..." Mycroft sniffed and got up to dump the rest of his dinner in the trash.

"You _knew_ what you were implying," Greg sneered.  
  
"That perception is ALL on you!"

"So, I c'n s'eep w'if you?" Sherlock peeped from the end of the table. Both Mycroft and Greg turned to look; the little detective was curled up into a ball in his chair, and was resting his cheek against his knees with his thumb in his mouth, watching the two of them.

Greg sighed. "Yeah...yeah, you can. C'mere, sweetheart...let's give your hands and face a quick wash."

"They's alrea'y c'ean. I p'omise."

"Be that as it may, we're still going to take a wash cloth to them." Mycroft urged Sherlock up and out of his seat. The baby dragged his feet over to Greg who was struggling not to laugh. "What a tough life, huh..."

"Y'ah." Sherlock turned his face this way and that to avoid the cloth, but Greg easily out-maneuvered him. "Dun' y'ike it!" he protested, trying to block Greg with his hand. "S'op, p'ease!??!"

"If you'd just stop and let me do it, we'd be done!" Greg turned to Mycroft; "Has he always been this touchy about his face--?"

"No, this is a recent development." Mycroft stood next to his little brother and caught both thin wrists in one hand, letting Greg finish up. "As in, 'within-the-past-six-months' recent."

" _S'oooooooop i'd!!!_ " Sherlock wailed.

"All done!" Greg cheered as Mycroft let go of the baby.

Sherlock scrubbed his hands over his face. "I ha'd tha', G'eg. Is n'ah nice."

Greg turned to look at Mycroft; "Why's he a fusspot about it all of a sudden?"

Mycroft shrugged, then asked Sherlock, "Why do you hate having your face washed?"

"I jus' don' y'ike it." Sherlock tried to scrub his cheek against his shoulder, and winced as it rubbed over his sunburn. "I jus' don'," he sniffled.  
  
Mycroft brought Sherlock into a hug and began to rub his back. "Alright, we're done down here...time to go upstairs. Maybe Gregory will bring a nice bottle with him when he joins us," he added, eyeing Greg over Sherlock's shoulder.

Greg rolled his eyes, unsure how he'd ended up in the company of the two most dramatic members of their family. "Of course. Sweet milk for the sweet boy."

"I y'ike milk." Sherlock took Mycroft's hand and let himself be led out of the kitchen. "G'eg?!" he called back.

"Yeah?"

"B'ing snacks too, p'ease!"

"I thought you said you weren't hungry anymore?"

"I y'am 'gain!" Sherlock called back as Mycroft tugged him out of the room, his nappy making his bum sway with each step.  
  
Greg smirked and shook his head; 'course the little whinger was. He reached up into the cabinet for one of Sherlock's bottles, and thought about what he could take up there for a snack that wouldn't give Mycroft a fit. Then, he filled a sauce pan with milk, a drop of almond extract, a teaspoon of sugar, and let it warm while he dug through the cupboard.  
  
"Aha! I knew the louse hadn't actually binned them," Greg cheered, pulling a pack of Jammie Dodgers from behind a very large box of pasta. Mycroft would be pissed about the crumbs, but hopefully he'd be too busy eating more than his share to notice.

At the top of the stairs, Sherlock turned to go to Mycroft and Greg's bedroom, but found himself being tugged the other way...towards the nursery.

"My'coff!" Sherlock's little heart sank, and he stopped in his tracks. "I don' wan' s'eep by myself!"

"And you're not going to," Mycroft said, trying to urge him along again. "But we're going to do something about your shoulders."

"My sol'diers?" Sherlock craned his neck to look at his shoulders; "Why nee' do some'fin?"

"You've had a little too much sun today...we're going to use a bit of cream on you, so you tan nicely."

"Da'yee says, 'Sher'yock! I tan your hide'!" Sherlock made a mock-stern voice and shook a threatening finger.

"This is a different kind of tan. The kind you get on holiday."

"I ne'ber getted tanned a'fore." Sherlock finally followed Mycroft into the nursery.

"Because you tend to stay inside all day...like a hermit."

"I'mma her'bit?"

"A hermit."

"Y'ike a her'bit c'ab?"

"Yes, like a little hermit crab who stays in his shell." Mycroft walked over to the changing table and searched for the tube of nappy cream.  
  
"I do'nah ha'b a shell, My'coff."

"No, you just have a coat that's a size too big for you."

"I y'ub my coat."

"I know you do." Mycroft pulled the nappy cream out; "Aha! We need to sort out this changing table."

"I don' y'ub nappy c'eam."

"I know that, too." Mycroft handed the nappy cream to Sherlock to hold and went to dig in the dresser next.

"G'eg say'ed I could be nekkid."

"That was before we decided to put cream on your shoulders," Mycroft said, selecting a thin, powder-blue t-shirt that felt soft to the touch, with the word 'B-A-B-Y' spelled out with building blocks.

"I don' wan' c'eam."

"Do you want your shoulders to hurt all night?"

Sherlock stuck his thumb in his mouth and shook his head.

"Then we're putting a little cream on you."

"I s'ill n'ah y'ike i'd," Sherlock grumbled.

"Your protests have been heard and understood. Collect your bunny..." Mycroft pulled Sherlock's thumb out of his mouth, causing him to pout; "--and your dummy."

The mention of his bunny effectively erased his pout. "Bun, bun, bun, bun," Sherlock sang to himself as he bounded over to the pair of cots in the corner of the room and rooted through the mountain of blankets for his bunny.

"I fine'im, My'coff!" Sherlock held up his bunny by it's fluffy tail proudly.

"Wonderful. Where's your dummy?"

Sherlock looked down and (as if he'd been waiting for that very signal) stuck his thumb back in his mouth, with Bunny still hanging from his hand. After having a quick peek around at the obviously dummy-less floor, he looked back up at his brother and shrugged.  
  
"You're supposed to be keeping up with your dummies, little boy. Where did you last have one?"

"Um..." Sherlock gazed up towards the ceiling, deep in thought. "Ou'thide?"

Mycroft rage sniffed at him.

"Da'yee does'at," Sherlock garbled around his thumb, rubbing his bunny's ear on his nose.

"We need to get you a dummy leash...several dummy leashes. You're up to three lost ones a week." Mycroft rifled in the top drawer of the dresser and pulled out another two-pack of dummies. "Come along."  
  
"Mine? I can ha'b it? P'ease?!" Sherlock hopped along behind him. "Din'nah mean ta' y'ose 'id!"

"I'm aware." Mycroft used his teeth to nick the plastic on the package, then pulled it open. "How do you keep track of them at home?"

"Sma'yer f'yat," Sherlock said as he caught up and gripped a handful of his brother's shirt. "An' _y'ots_ o'b dummies."

"Yes, that would make it easier." Mycroft led them into the master bedroom and popped one of the dummies free of the plastic. "Climb onto the bed and sit there with bunny while I give this a quick wash. Wait for Gregory."

"Wai' f'ah G'eg."

Mycroft paused in the doorway of the ensuite; "That means staying on the bed until Gregory comes into the room."

"I y'am alrea'y!" Sherlock whinged as he climbed onto the bed and spread himself out into a comfy starfish in the middle.  
  
Mycroft went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock poked his head up as the door shut. "My'coff?" he peeped, alarmed to find himself completely alone. "My'coff had'da potty. We wai' f'ah G'eg," Sherlock told his bunny...even as he was scooting himself off of the bed.


	7. Chapter 7

Greg had just finished pouring Sherlock's bottle and was screwing the lid on tight when he felt something poke him in the ribs, prompting him to shout and jump no less than three feet into the air.

Sherlock quickly stepped back and hugged his bunny close. "...I scare G'eg?" he asked quietly, looking like he very much knew that he had.

Greg stared at him for a moment, then started to laugh while he tried to lower his heart rate. "Christ, yeah...I mean, yeah, just a bit, lad." He picked up Sherlock's bottle from the floor where it had fallen; "What are you doing back down here? Where's your brother?"

"Po'ddy. Say 'wai' f'ah G'eg'."

"I'd bet a years' wages that he meant for you to wait upstairs."

"I dun y'ike i'd by myself."  
  
"I can understand that...maybe better than most. Here, carry your bottle for Greg."

"F'ah G'eg."

Greg quickly loaded the tea tray with tea and biscuits. If they were lucky they'd be back upstairs before....

" **Sherlock Holmes** , you come here right this instant!" Mycroft bellowed from the doorway of his and Greg's room.  
  
Sherlock audibly gulped and made to head back down the stairs.

"No-no-no, you come stay with me, pet. Come here, come stand with Greg." Greg motioned with his head, and Sherlock slowly inched his way back and cowered behind him, trying to hunker himself down with his bottle and his bunny.

"Sherlock Holmes! **ONE**!"

"Stop your shoutin', he's with me!" Greg called out, and Mycroft appeared in the doorway.

His gaze zeroed right in on his little brother. "I told you _specifically_ to stay ON the bed!"

"Y-y'ah," Sherlock said in a barely audible whisper, his eyes welling up.

"And did you stay ON the bed?"

"I s'ay wif G'eg," Sherlock told the floor, his face half hidden in his bunny.

"You were supposed to wait for Gregory ON the bed." Mycroft had his arms crossed over his chest, while staring down his nose at the baby.

"Yea', we got that bit," Greg sighed, adjusting the tray in his hands. "Sherlock, what do you say?"

"So'wwy. Din'nah mean to."

"There. Perfect." Greg walked up and pushed the tray at Mycroft until the man uncrossed his arms and took it, looking more outraged than ever. "I brought you tea." Greg kissed his cheek and turned him back into their bedroom.

Sherlock slowly followed after Greg, keeping close to him and well away from his brother.

"He knows better, Gregory."

"And he's said he was sorry."

"Gregory."

Greg sighed, then leaned in close to whisper in his lovers' ear; "Look, if you wanna keep on until he's bawlin' and upset and too wound up to sleep, be my guest. You'll be stayin' in the nursery with him, then."

Mycroft glared at him, then sighed as well. "You," he said, turning to Sherlock; "You need to do as you're told. Next time is a spanking, understand?"

Sherlock tucked his thumb in his mouth and hunched his shoulders, nodding. "Yeth'thir."

"Good. Get back up on the bed."

Sherlock scrambled to do as he was told, eyes still watery over the near miss.

"He came straight from you to me," Greg murmured at Mycroft. "He wasn't digging in your office, or heading out the front door." Greg put his hand in one of Mycroft's back pockets and gave him a squeeze. "He's learnin'."

"Slowly," Mycroft grumbled, taking a sip of tea. "Come, little brother, let's put cream on your shoulders before they start to hurt."

"Hur'ds y'ittle bit." Sherlock stayed where he was, eyeing Mycroft warily.  
  
Mycroft deflated; "I'm sorry I shouted...I was very concerned something had happened to you. I'm not angry, and you're not in trouble."

Sherlock scooted across the bed and octopus'ed himself around Mycroft's waist; "So'wwy."

Mycroft softened and wrapped his arms around his baby brother, then kissed the top of his head. "All forgiven."

"You're both a pair of sops."

"Hush." Mycroft patted the back of Sherlock's nappy, then sat him up and slipped his dummy in his mouth before reaching for the nappy cream.  
  
"Didn't we decide that's gonna be a horrendous mess?"

"That's what the shirt is for."

"Ooookay."

"Have some faith in my problem solving skills. If I can keep the U.S. from imploding under their own stupidity, I can keep our sheets clean," Mycroft smirked as he smeared nappy cream over Sherlock's shoulders.

The baby whinged behind his dummy and tried to wiggle away...he didn't like nappy cream on his bum, and he _certainly_ wasn't enjoying it on his shoulders!

Mycroft was really slathering it on, and Sherlock was not pleased one bit. He squirmed and tried to lean away, just as he had in the bath, but Mycroft had the advantage of holding a non-slippery baby.

"Myyy'cofff," Sherlock whinged tearfully and tried again to lean out of the way; "S'oppit, p'ease!"

"Hey, Sherlock, look!" Greg tore open the package of biscuits and put one in Sherlock's hand. "Look, there's a biscuit!"

""Bis'sit?" Sherlock sniffed, looking down at his hand.

"You said you were still hungry, remember?"  
  
"A'ways hung'y fa' bis'sits," Sherlock snuffled, taking a bite of his treat. "My fab'rite, a'sides choc'it."

Mycroft opened his mouth to be snide, and found himself with a mouth full of biscuit.  
  
"Chew carefully, Myc." Greg quipped.  
  
Having thoroughly coated the baby in nappy cream, Mycroft held his sticky hands out in front of him. "Shirt," he mumbled around a mouthful of biscuit as he climbed off the bed and back to the bathroom to wash his hands.

"I guess that's supposed to mean he wants me to put you in this." Greg picked up the shirt and held it out to get a look at it. "Aww...I like this one," he said as he looked over at Sherlock...and then started to laugh.

Sherlock was sat next to him on the bed in nothing but a nappy, all teary-eyed and mouth covered in crumbs, shoulders coated in thick white cream, with half a soggy, chewed biscuit clutched in his fist.

It was such a sad, pitiful picture...and still the cutest damned thing.  
  
"Scoot over here, sweetheart," Greg said, chuckling as he bunched the shirt up in his hands. "Poor baby."

"I dun y'ike it."

"Does your Daddy enjoy listening to you talk about things you don't like as well?" Greg asked, pulling the shirt over Sherlock's head.

"Da'yee say'd he y'ike y'isten a me talk bout anythin'."

Greg helped Sherlock get one arm into his shirt. "Finish your biscuit. Once you're dressed, you can have another."

Sherlock shoved the rest of his chewed-on biscuit into his mouth and helped Greg with the other sleeve.

"Bis'sit?" Sherlock held out his hand for another before Greg had even gotten his shirt pulled down over his belly.

"Chew that one all up and swallow it before I give you another," Greg said, rubbing his hand over the duvet to check for stray crumbs.  
  
Sherlock pouted, but he chewed and chewed and chewed, just like Greg told him to, then swallowed before holding both his hands out. "Bis'sit now? P'ease?"

"Good boy; last one for the evening." Greg placed the biscuit in Sherlock's waiting hands. "Then it's time for your bottle."

"...Where _is_ your bottle, anyway?"


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to stink changes to aos formatting, the top of this chapter lists me (embalmer56) as the author of this chapter. In reality this was a 100% co-written with sadistically_sweet. I'm listed as the author because i 'posted' the chapter. All loves and kudos come to us both ;-)  
> Thank you for reading!!!!
> 
> P.S. Dicks

Sherlock paused in chewing the jam off the top of his biscuit; "Bo'ddle?"

"Yea, I thought I put it on the tray...did your brother move it?"

Sherlock hopped off the bed, half-eaten biscuit left behind on the duvet. "In'bestigation! I can fin' it fa' G'eg!" Sherlock rubbed his hands together and turned in place, taking in the room.

"...I can tell you where it is." Mycroft had come back into the room and was eyeing the soggy biscuit on his side of the bed with disgust.

"Waiiiii'! I know!"

Mycroft picked up the leftover biscuit with two fingers, and dropped it into the waste bin beside the bed. "Do you."

"Y'ah!" Sherlock scrambled back onto the bed, pushed past Greg, and lifted his pillow to find...nothing. "Awww."

Mycroft lifted _his_ pillow, and found not only Sherlock's bottle, but the damp spot that it had left.

"Awww...I was c'ose!"

"Close, but not quite," Mycroft said, unamused. "Get under the blankets; it's time for bed."

Sherlock's excitement deflated, and he sat back on his heels. "...Where bis'sit?" he asked, looking on top of the covers where he'd left it.

"It fell into the rubbish. Under the covers."

"I fin' it." Sherlock made to slither off the bed to retrieve his biscuit, but a pinch on his thigh brought him up short. "Owwww, G'eg! Tha' wasn' b'ery nice."

"Eating biscuits out of the trash isn't very nice either." Greg handed him a fresh biscuit. "Do as Mycroft says."

Sherlock shoved the entire biscuit into his mouth and clambered under the covers.  
"My th'irt i'th th'tuck to me," he whinged before his head even hit the pillow.

"That's tough." Greg stood up and began to disrobe.

"I don' y'ike it, G'eg."

"Fall asleep sooner, and you won't notice."

"I can'nah s'eep w'if it."

"Sure you can." Greg stripped down to his boxers and climbed into bed, where Mycroft joined them a minute later. "Go on and try it. Close your eyes."

Sherlock continued to pout up at the ceiling and, by the shift in his breathing, Mycroft knew that a fit was beginning to brew. "Come here," he sighed, urging Sherlock to sit back up, and pulled him over into his lap sideways. "Where's the damned bottle?"

"You had it last."

"That helps me exactly not at all." Mycroft peered around and discovered the bottle on his bedside table.

"I dun y'ike it, My'coff."

"I know," Mycroft sympathized. "But it's going to take the heat out of your shoulders." He gave the bottle a shake, and then held it up to his little brother's mouth.

Sherlock fussed and whinged for a moment, until he got a taste of milk and began to suckle, slowly relaxing.

"We're gunna have to put him in the tub to get his shirt off in the morning."

"Unless we fill the baby pool."

"Oh, because that's gonna go well...just like the hose."

"Hush."

Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of Mycroft's arm, listening to the two of them discussing...well, discussing _him_. It gave him an odd sort of comfort when he was in littlespace, having people talk about him like that as if he wasn't right there to hear everything...it infuriated him to no end when he was big, the condescending nature of it, but when he was small, it only made him feel smaller, and cared for.

"...Shh, he's dozing off."

"Aw. See, that's why I wanted to do it; you've had 'im all day."

"You gave him a bath and changed him."

"Yeah, but that all took what, twenty minutes? I didn't get to cuddle with him like that."

"Cuddle him after he goes to sleep then, you whinger."

Sherlock reached out a hand for Greg, playing with his fingers when Greg reached for him as well.

"There, see. Now you've gotten your special attention."  
  
Sherlock giggled as Greg gave Mycroft the one-fingered salute with the hand he wasn't holding.

"Not in front of the baby, Gregory."

"Psssh. You didn't see nothing, did ya?"

"P'inger."

"Close your eyes. It's time to settle down and rest...and that includes everyone."

Sherlock pouted around the nipple in his mouth and made a small, whimpering noise at the back of his throat.  
  
"You're such a brute, Mycroft."

"He's always making noises like that; that's just what he does when he's tired."

"Nn-nn," Sherlock murmured, running his hand along Mycroft's arm while he held his bottle.

"Shhh, I know better than to believe that...Billy-boy."

Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment before he smiled, making them crinkle at the corners, and hid his face against Mycroft's chest.

Greg narrowed his eyes...had he just heard what he thought he'd heard? "Billy-boy?"

"That's what Mummy and everyone else called him for the first four years of his life, before he decided he liked his other name better...isn't that right?" He gave Sherlock a little jiggle in his arms.

"His other name? What are you...oh my God, I don't know how I forgot that you lot are part of the aristocracy," Greg flopped back onto his pillow. " 'Course ya' got like, seventeen names."

" 'M Sher'yock."

"You are Sherlock now, but the first time you wore nappies you were everyone's sweet little Billy-boy."

Sherlock blew a milky raspberry, but he was grinning ear to ear.

"Isn't Billy what they call the skull?"

"You named the skull Billy? Really?!" Mycroft gaped at his little brother, arm holding the bottle falling to his side.

Sherlock gave a coy shrug and pulled the bottle back to his mouth.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Of course you did. I'm only surprised you didn't name it 'Mycroft'."

"Is mi'yyle name."

"Didn't I say it was time to close your eyes and be quiet? Because it's time to close your eyes and be quiet." Mycroft turned Sherlock onto his side, facing him, and began to pat him.  
  
"I'll take over, if you need me to."

"He's nearly done with his bottle; we just need to be nice...and quiet...and not rile him up anymore before then," Mycroft said, thunking his hand against Sherlock's back.

Sherlock immediately began to squirm and fuss, spitting out his bottle; "Up, up, up. G'eg? Nee' G'eg! G'eeeeeeeeg! Halp, G'eg!"

"It's not time to play, it's time to rest."

"Wan' res' wif' G'eg now." Sherlock corkscrewed out of his brother's arms and flopped himself down next to Greg...who was having a helluv'a time not looking smitten beyond words.

"G'eg, bo'ddle?"

The pinched look on Mycroft's face warned of dire consequences, but he handed the bottle over anyway. "If you hadn't opened your gob, he would have stayed quiet and fallen asleep."

"Nothing we can do about that now," Greg said, grinning smugly as he turned over onto his side and propped up on his elbow.

Sherlock snuggled right in and took to the last third or so of his bottle right away, without the need of any coaxing.  
  
"Show off."

"You're just jealous."

"Oh, yes...yes of course, that must be it." Mycroft turned to click the lamp on his side of the bed off, leaving just Greg's to illuminate the room. "Remember that when you're trying to go to the toilet tomorrow, and he's clinging to your ankles."

"Do you do that?" Greg stroked Sherlock's cheek, the baby's eyes already mostly closed. "Do you make it hard to go to the bathroom."

"Ba'ffroom for baffs on'y."

"Awww, I see. You want to be in charge of changing Mycroft's nappy then?"

Sherlock snorted and had a cough over some improperly inhaled milk.

"You're both hilarious."

Greg laughed out loud as he sat up, then helped the still sputtering baby sit up, too. "Yeah, that was funny, wasn't it?" he said, leaning Sherlock against his shoulder and patting his back. "Uncle Greg's hilarious."

"F-fun'nee," Sherlock choked and coughed, his face gone red and eyes watering.

"Yes, so hilarious you nearly asphyxiated the child." Mycroft sat up and took the bottle away. "That's exactly why you don't lay them _flat_ , Gregory."

"Mycroft could suck the fun out of a circus, couldn't he."

"Y'ah," Sherlock wheezed, his breathing returning to normal.

"I could make mention of clowns, but I'm thinking the reference is obvious."

"G'eg fun'nee." Sherlock yawned and snuggled closer. Greg leaned them back until they were laying down. "Fun'nee y'ike c'yown."

"Shhh." Greg took the dummy Mycroft held out and slipped it into Sherlock's mouth.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, then retrieved his phone from the nightstand and began to run through his mail.

Greg cuddled Sherlock high up on his chest and reached down to pat his backside. "Thought you were done with that," he said.

"It's never-ending, dear, but I'm getting a head start on tomorrow's affairs."

Sherlock snuffled and rubbed his wet cheeks against Greg's shirt as he readied himself to go to sleep, then turned to look at his brother at the sound of his voice...and instantly perked up at the sight of his phone. "I see?" he asked, lifting his head and reaching for it. "I see, My'coff? P'ease?!"

A wide, devious smirk spread across Mycroft's face. "Well, far be it for me to suck the fun out of the room," he said, staring directly at Gregory as he signed out of his mail and handed Sherlock the phone.

Sherlock rolled himself over and took his brother's phone, then nestled back against Greg. "My'coff gots games?"

"Leave my CandyCrush alone; the rest you can play." Mycroft rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. "You're not to download anything, either."

"Tha's n'ah a fun game, gotta get mo'."

"Turn out the light, Gregory."

"Turn it out yourself, ya' great lump." Greg snuggled Sherlock close and patted his hip. "Let's find some music."

" _Fiiiiine_ ," Mycroft sighed, and reached over to flip a switch on the wall next to him, turning off the lamp on Greg's side.

Greg looked up; "I didn't know that did that."

"Add that too the extensive list of things Gregory Lestrade doesn't know."

Sherlock giggled, the light from the phone illuminating his face.  
  
"Shush, you're supposed to be on my side." Greg took the phone from Sherlock to find the music app, setting off a whole chorus of whinging and "Nooo, I do'it! Mine, Ge'g, mine phone!" until he gave it back with a huff.

Mycroft chuckled into his pillow. " 'I want hold the baby, let me hold the baby.' Enjoying yourself?"

Mycroft squawked when someone pinched his bum. Whipping around he found Sherlock looking oblivious and Greg looking smug.

"Music, Sherlock. Something nice."

"I do'it."

"Gregory."

"Yes, my love."

Sherlock looked between the two of them with big, wide eyes. "Why My'coff yelled?" he asked.

"He had a bad dream. Don't worry about it. Can I see this for just a moment, please?" Greg tried to take the phone and slip it from the baby's hands, only to make him clutch it tighter.

"My'coff had'da ba' d'eam?" Sherlock reached over with one hand and patted his brother's hip. "My'coff okay?"

"Your brother's fine. Just let me pick some music for us..." Greg made one more attempt to take command of the phone, only to have Sherlock move it out of his reach.

"You want this back?" Greg tipped his chin at Mycroft, gently nudging Sherlock towards him.

"He can'nah ha'b i'd. Is mine." Sherlock hugged the phone to his chest.

"Seems it's yours for the evening."

"We're going to download fart sounds for your ringtones," Greg smirked.

"Yea!"

"You'll both end up over my knee."

Greg took his chance and scooped up the phone as Sherlock dropped it to cover his bum. "Not in front of the child, Myc."

"Nooo, G'eg...gi'b i'd back!" Sherlock whinged as soon as he realized his mistake, and reached for it again. "Mine phone!"

Greg was quick to move it away from him while he brought up the music app. "What do we want to listen to tonight, gents?"

"The Sound of Silence."

Greg snorted. "Never was a big fan'o them," he said, continuing to scroll.

"My'coff!" Sherlock whinged, putting his hand back on Mycroft's hip and shaking him. "Make him gi'b i'd back!"

"Gregory."

"Tattletale." Greg selected the playlist that Mycroft had made just for the boys whenever they were over; a combination of classical and white noise. "There," he said, handing it back.

"Di's n'ah farts, G'eg..." Sherlock tapped at the front of the phone.

"Thank God. Why are we not sleeping?"

"Because you wanted to prove how 'fun' you are."

* ** _PFTPT_** *

"Tha's farts!" Sherlock giggled, waving the phone over his head.

"Give me that!" Mycroft snatched the phone and quickly closed the YouTube video that his little brother had pulled up of dogs startling themselves awake by farting.

"D'as _mine_! Gi'b it back!!!" Sherlock reached over his brother and struggled to get the back, yelping when Mycroft smacked the back of one hand.

"In fact, it is _mine_. And it's going on the charger."

Sherlock's chin wobbled as he pulled his hand back and he turned towards Greg, hiding his face against his chest.

"Nice. You did it again, Myc." Greg bundled Sherlock close and patted his lower back. "Way to go."

"That was richly deserved."

"Wasn't necessary."

"Neither is your commentary." Mycroft plugged his phone in and dropped it onto the nightstand.

Greg laid beside him silently, and rubbed Sherlock's back as, eventually, the baby fussed himself to sleep.

After all had gone silent..."My apologies. That was--"

"Unnecessary?"

Mycroft rolled toward them and put his hand over Greg's. Together, they traced slow, random patterns over his little brother's sleeping back.

"...I want to be the fun one, sometimes."

"You have your moments."

Mycroft sighed, and stared down at his snoozing little brother in a way that almost seemed wistful.

"Oh c'mon, Myc...you're not 'not-the-fun-one'. They both love you loads."

"Until they don't."

"That'sa load of wash," Greg scoffed.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Ten to one, they both choose spending time with you."

"That's not true."

  
"He was very eager to follow you shopping."

  
"He thought he could finagle more sweeties out of me. That's not the same thing."

  
Mycroft shuffled closer, spooning behind his sleeping baby brother. "You think?"

  
"I know."

Mycroft was quiet for a moment, then, "...What would you have done?"

"Hm?" Greg grunted...he'd nearly fallen asleep in the short interim.

"Just now. What would you have done instead?"

"Oh, over the phone?" Greg rubbed his free hand over his face. "I wouldn't have let'im hold it in the first place."

"In order to be obnoxious? Yes, you would have," Mycroft said dryly.

"I really wouldn't have." Greg leaned in and kissed Mycroft's forehead. "He'd have fussed as much as he just did and would have been asleep a half hour ago."

Mycroft frowned; "he wouldn't have tried to play with it if I'd honored our agreement."

"You're in need of rest even more than he was."

"I agree."

"See, that proves it." Greg carefully inched himself down further into bed. "Stop worryin' yourself over it. He won't even remember come morning."

Mycroft sighed again, before following Greg's lead and settling into bed.

"...I can still hear you worrying."

Mycroft only hummed in reply.

"...You wan'na hold him again?"

"No, no...don't risk waking him up."

"You sure? He's not going to fuss over who it is as long as he's havin'a cuddle."

"Just leave him there."

"What, now you don't want him?"

"Gregory."

"What?"

"Shut. Up."

Greg chuckled, then leaned over and kissed his complicated boyfriend's forehead again. "You're still a good big brother."

"Keep that to yourself; you'll ruin my reputation."

"Without a doubt, you lot are the weirdest family I have ever met."

"And you're an enabler."

"Touche'. 'Night, love."

"Goodnight, Gregory."


End file.
